


Five Curses That Were Never Cast in Narnia

by cofax



Category: Chronicles of Narnia - All Media Types
Genre: AU, Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2015-08-24
Updated: 2015-08-24
Packaged: 2018-04-16 22:23:50
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,366
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/4642287
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/cofax/pseuds/cofax
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff"><p>Beta by L.S.</p></blockquote>





	Five Curses That Were Never Cast in Narnia

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Shabby Abby (KJPearl)](https://archiveofourown.org/users/KJPearl/gifts).



**1\. King Tut’s Tomb**

Archaeologists from the University of Beaversdam today re-sealed the entrance of what is widely considered to be the tomb of King Rilian the Disenchanted, son of Caspian the Navigator (or Caspian X). A rash of strange deaths in the scientific community since the tomb was discovered five years ago during construction of the Beruna Flood Control Project has caused consternation among both scientists and members of the general public. While several scholars, including the chair of the Queen’s advisory council, Dr. WiseTail (Centaur), insist that there is no danger to the public from the tomb, Queen Catalin has determined that the risk to the public is sufficiently high to justify royal action.

At a press conference yesterday, Her Majesty announced, “I am not in the habit of allowing my people to be ensorcelled or spend weeks babbling nonsensically about Green Ladies. Six members of the original excavation have died in _very_ strange circumstances, two of whom turned into great green snakes and had to be killed by the Royal Guard when they entered Cair Paravel. This is powerful magic of unknown origin. Until my staff are able to determine the cause, and reassure the public that these tragedies will not be repeated, the tomb will remain closed. That is all.”

Her Majesty took no questions.

***

**2\. Hope Diamond**

The Great Temple of Tash in Tashbaan is rarely empty; the vulture-headed god demands nearly constant attendance. But on the eve of the vernal equinox, the Temple is emptied while the priests of Tash and the priestesses of Azaroth conduct their ceremonies on the desert sands west of the city walls.

One particular equinox, the interior of the Temple was very dark. Not too dark, however, for a certain Raccoon and his companion, a Rat, to find their way. The two Narnians were old friends, and in a moment of wine-induced bravado several months ago, had entered into a wager that one of them, at least, was regretting. 

“Do you hear something?” whispered Norwen. He twitched his nose uncertainly. As a Rat, he was used to staying on the edges of rooms, or preferably in the walls or ceilings, not crossing the center of an enormous echoing stone chamber. The ceiling of this room was so high Norwen couldn’t look up at it without hurting his neck.

Proctor the Raccoon ignored him. He was much larger, and braver, than Norwen. He continued padding across the floor, ignoring Norwen’s complaints, until they reached the great dais on which stood the statue of Tash.

The statue of Tash at the Temple in Tashbaan is one of the great works of Calormene art, and dates to the early years of the Melandin Dynasty, some four centuries before the arrival of the White Witch in Narnia. The center piece is carved out of granite, with great gilt wooden wings arching over Tash’s head on either side. He sits in judgment, head turned to one side, and his single great red eye is always lit from behind by a cunningly-located lamp set into the rear of the statue.

“Make a name for ourselves!” muttered Norwen, as Proctor patted his forepaws against the stone at the bottom of the statue. “We’ll be famous! Get in and out like thieves in the night!” 

“Come on, then, Nor,” grunted Proctor.

Norwen whimpered, but at Proctor’s command, backed up, took a run, and launched himself off Proctor’s back at the statue. He landed, uncomfortably, on Tash’s lap. The stone was warm, creepily so. He unwound the line tied around his waist and fastened one end around the arm of Tash’s chair. “All right, come on up!”

Proctor swarmed up the line nearly as quickly as Norwen had jumped. He grunted approval (Norwen wiggled in pleasure, then stopped himself, abashed), then began the final climb up the densely-carved upper portion of the statue.

While Proctor climbed, Norwen kept watch, peering nervously around the great dark hall. He wasn’t sure, but the room felt different now — like there were more shadows, and they were closer.

Was that a whisper?

Proctor slipped, grumbled, and kept climbing. There were _definitely_ more shadows now. Norwen couldn’t see the crack of light under the main doors anymore, although it was only mid-afternoon. 

Something hissed behind him. Norwen spun, claws scrabbling on the stone of Tash’s lap, but saw nothing. Just above, he saw Proctor’s striped tail waving. “Are you there yet?” He was proud his voice didn’t quaver. Much.

There was a scraping noise, and Proctor grunted with effort. Dust filtered down; Norwen put a paw on his nose to keep from sneezing. It took an endless time, but finally Proctor announced, “That’s it. Bag.”

Norwen tossed the small velvet pouch up; Proctor caught it neatly with one paw, and slipped something into it. Something about the size and shape of an egg. 

“Right, then!” called Norwen, as quietly as possible. “Let’s get out of here!”

Down Proctor came, much faster than he had ascended, and the two Narnians slid off Tash’s lap onto the cold stone floor. Speed was of the essence now: their transport, a Terebinthian freighter loaded with rugs, silks, and spices to trade for Terebinthian timber and Narnian wool, was leaving on the evening tide. Once safe on board, hidden in the stinking bilge, they could not be found by any Human or Beast alive.

But Tash is neither Human nor Beast. As soon as the two Narnians had disappeared through the priest’s door into the Temple dormitories, and thence into the sewers of Tashbaan, the great god stirred. The statue remained solid and still, for it was, after all, merely stone and wood. But nonetheless a shadow stepped forward, coming out of the stone: a wisp of darkness, a hint of anger, the ash of sacrifices long-ago offered and eaten.

The priests of Tash would be horrified and enraged at the blinding of their god when they returned at sunset; but Tash’s vengeance was already underway. The stone would be sold, and sold again, but every fortune built from it would turn to dust, and every hand to touch it would wither and fail. The Eye of Tash would bring nothing but grief to all who held it, until, centuries later, it was at last returned to the Temple by another thief in the night.

***

**3\. Flying Narnian**

Representative of the rest of his reign, Caspian X’s reconquest of the Lonely Isles was short, but brutal. He swept down on the town of Narrowhaven with two hundred heavily-armed soldiers, imprisoned the ruling council, and executed the governor in the square. Within thirty-six hours the heads of all the leading families had sworn allegiance to Narnia, and Caspian had twelve new hostages to squeeze into the lower decks of his flagship, the _Dawn Treader_.

But that was the last official action taken by the Usurper, who by some was ironically called the Navigator, for of course he never found his way home. He sailed away with the _Dawn Treader_ and _Aslan’s Revenge_ , heading ever eastward in his conviction that he could sail to Aslan’s Country and there live forever. And perhaps he found it, but no one ever returned to Narnia to tell of his fate. 

Yet because people will spin stories, and in the years that Miraz II struggled to re-establish Narnia’s ruined economy, and rebuild diplomatic relationships destroyed by Caspian’s arrogance, people needed stories. They say that the _Dawn Treader_ never reached Aslan’s Country, or that Aslan turned the Usurper away, as punishment for his many crimes. And that Aslan cursed them to never rest until they truly repented. 

So the _Dawn Treader_ sails forever, visible only at night, full of the damned souls of the murderous king and his bloody-handed crew, a ghost ship full of ghosts, including Caspian’s torturer Reepicheep and his victims. The ship is spotted only on the darkest nights by those who are close to death themselves, and trailing behind it like a fog are the howls of the victims, trapped forever in the foul bowels of the ship. 

But that is just a story. No doubt the timbers of the _Dawn Treader_ washed up on some desert island years ago, and they are bleaching in the sun; and Caspian and all his crew are gone to their reward, whatever that may be.

***

****

**4\. The Unappreciated Guest**

They tell a story in the Downwind Hills of a Badger who was even more cranky and unfriendly than your average Badger. He never had visitors, and when he went visiting, he ate all the cakes and took too much sugar for his tea. He had no real friends, except for a particular ancient Beach Dryad who found him amusing, and did not mind his ways.

And so he would have lived his life out, but for the fact that a Human Girl knocked on his door one cold winter evening.

The Badger was tired and cold: he had been out hunting snails and grubs all day, and it was little he’d had for his pains. When he opened the door, he saw a dirty Human girl, in a tattered green cloak, with no shoes, and mud to her knees. “Please,” she said, “I’m so very cold and hungry.”

Any other day, perhaps the Badger would have found some pity. But he had little enough to eat himself, and a long winter ahead. So he said, “No,” and slammed the door in her face.

She knocked again. He opened the door, snarled, “No!” at her, and slammed it again. This time he threw the bolt. 

Ten seconds passed. Just as he thought his visitor must have given up, there came a rattling _bang_ on the door, that shook dust from his ceiling. And again, and again.

The Badger seized a poker from the fireplace and marched to the door. When he flung it open, the Girl was still there, but she looked somehow … taller. He opened his mouth to bellow, but she put her hand up, and somehow he couldn’t speak.

“This is your last chance, Beast. Consider well what you would say, on this cold night, the last night of the year. You will be bound by what you do.”

This had gone on long enough. The Badger puffed himself up to his full size (which was, truth be told, not very large), shook the poker at the Girl, and yelled, “GO AWAY!”

And so she did.

Badger went to bed, and dreamed of voices arguing over his head, and one, a great deep Beast voice, saying with humor, “He’s yours if you want him, but it will be long and long before the account is settled.” And then a woman laughed.

When he woke, he had only two legs and blunt teeth and no fur at all, and yes, he was a Human man. But he never again turned away a visitor, and for a hundred years they told stories of his generosity from the Downwind Hills clear to Cair Paravel.

 

***

**5\. Pandora**

The box was but the size of her hand: ivory, Lasaraleen guessed, carved cunningly in the shape of a unicorn hunt. One panel showed the hunters and their horses, dressed in the most romantic costumes; the next showed the dogs, racing and leaping through the forest; the next, the unicorn itself, head lowered as if to charge; and the last, of course, the unicorn on the ground, its horn severed and held aloft as a trophy. It was quite a charming little trinket, she thought, and it would match the green-and-cream decor of her dressing room wonderfully.

However, it sat on a shelf in her husband’s private study, a room that, properly, Lasaraleen had no business entering. 

That she was in the study at all was Aravis’ fault. For of course Aravis was in trouble again — or her betrothed, it was all the same — and she needed to know something that should be in the Tarkaan’s papers. The Tarkaan was away — Lasaraleen had made quite sure of that — and the house was quiet, for it was the hottest part of the day and even the lowest slave in the stables was asleep on his bed of straw.

The papers that Aravis had asked about were most likely in the cubbyholes over the desk. Lasaraleen looked longingly at the box, and then turned to her task. It took her longer than she planned, for the writing on Russem Tarkaan’s correspondence was not the clear and elegant script of her own books of romantic poetry. These were messages written by a cramped and hurried hand, often with ink smeared across the text, or maybe even blood. Two of them, though, clearly referred to Archenland and King Lune, and that was enough. 

Lasaraleen tucked the two scrolls in her vest, then hesitated. Surely Russem would notice they were missing, and would suspect someone. Possibly even her, for he was far less indulgent than he had been in the first years of their marriage. She thought sometimes that he read her letters, although she was very careful about her correspondence with Aravis. And Calormen was not _officially_ at war with Archenland, after all; it was not treason to write to an old friend who was betrothed to the crown prince of Archenland. But she didn’t like the way Russem looked at her, sometimes. Lasaraleen considered for a long moment, looking about the room for ideas. 

At length, she unbolted the window: it was on an upper floor, but the wall was not entirely impossible to climb. Then she disarranged all the papers, even casting some on the floor, and swept several coins from the desk into her own purse. Was there anything else in the room that a thief would have stolen? Very little, for it was sparsely furnished: its richness came from the densely-carved arcade in the ceiling, and the brilliant blues and golds on the walls.

Nothing else, except for the box. Very well, then: she _had_ to take the box, or her strategem would be ruined. She tucked it into her vest as well, despite the awkwardness, and slipped from the room.

Later, she would open it.

**Author's Note:**

> Beta by L.S.


End file.
